


The Masque of the White Dahlia

by Wordsmith_Storyweaver



Category: Clue (1985), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Murder Mystery, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith_Storyweaver/pseuds/Wordsmith_Storyweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certain citizens of Storybrooke receive mysterious packages at their doors; attached are invitations to a Halloween masquerade at Mr. Gold's manor. A Once Upon a Time twist to the board game/movie Clue. Written for CS horror/Halloween month.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, one and all! Sorry this is so short, but it IS just the prologue. Hope you enjoy!

You are hereby cordially invited to a Halloween party

At the home of Mr. R Gold and Ms. Belle French

On the 30th of October

Please join us for a magical entertainment and masquerade.

Enclosed in the black and gold box accompanying this invitation is your required costume for the evening.

R.S.V.P.s will not be necessary, dearies! We know you’ll join us.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

  
“Babe, did you see this?” Emma found the two boxes sitting in front of the door and brought them in with her—one addressed to herself and one to Killian. He walks out of their bedroom, flecks of paint and varnish staining his hands and t-shirt. Despite the fact that she sees him like this every day, a little chill rolls down her spine and settles low where it quickly turns into a pool of heat. She can’t explain why, but when he comes home from work, clothes dirtied by whatever he happened to be working with—brick dust, plaster, sawdust, etc.—and shirt clinging in all the right places to his muscled arms and chest, there’s just something so elementally male in him that calls to her on a primal, visceral level and makes her want to mark him as hers. Not that he has any complaints about her penchant because it usually means that they end up showering together. Actually for just that reason, since the moment he got back to the loft he’s been hoping she’d get home from the station soon, but the sight of the invitation in her hand stops his musings in their tracks.

  
He reads the orange and black text several times, searching for any threats implied in the phrasing. Of course, Emma doesn’t help matters when she wraps her arms around him from behind, untucks his shirt, and starts running her hands along his stomach. “Bloody hell, woman! You’re a princess, not an insatiable tart! Trying to read here.”  
She bites his shoulder through the shirt, pulling the fabric away from his skin. Her voice is all innocence, but her fingers toy with the waistband of his jeans and boxers. “Is there a law somewhere that says I can’t be both? Being the sheriff and all, I think I would be the first to know if a statute like that had been passed by the good citizens of this town. It’s an invitation to a party, Killian, not a massacre. Gold’s different now, and he’s trying to make amends to everyone. Now, your insatiable tart of a princess requires and commands your attentive services.”

  
He drops the fine piece of cardstock and follows Emma’s lead, hands held tightly in hers as she leads him upstairs to their bathroom. “Yes, my Lady.”


	2. Chapter 1: Grand Entrance

“Oh, hell no!” Killian hears Emma’s exclamation with a thrill of amusement; she had asked him to hang up “whatever’s in the boxes” without ever checking just what costume Rumplestiltskin had in mind for her to wear. When he’d laid eyes on it…well, there was certainly no sense denying that the former Dark One has excellent taste in women’s fashions. She storms out of their room carrying the dress in its garment bag, shoving it in his face. “Did you see what he wants me to wear to this thing?! Where am I going to put my gun and badge? I can’t even hide an ankle holster in something like this!”

“To be honest, love, I don’t think you’ll be required to come armed. Second, you have one of those fancy little things you women carry stuff around in, yes? Your badge can go in there, though again, don’t think you’ll be needing it. And lastly, I know exactly where you can hide a weapon or two in an outfit such as that. Now, go get dressed; I’ll help you with your arsenal once you do.” He turned her around by her shoulders, pushing her back in the direction of their bedroom and slapping her ass for good measure.

“Figures you would know…” He smiled at her griping, because she really was rather cute and amusing when flustered or thwarted in any way. His own costume is rather simple, making him wonder just what type of party Gold has in mind: a dark gray suit with matching hat (a fedora, according to the Giggle search he performed on Emma’s intelligence box); a matching long tie and waistcoat in a leafy, mossy green; black shoes shined to a high gleam; a crisp white linen shirt. Apparently, such a look was favored by gentlemen about sixty years ago in this world, although men’s clothing seems to have changed very little based on what Killian has seen. And though it won’t take him nearly as long to get ready, he gets dressed right away just so that he can watch her come down the stairs.

It may seem foolish, but he enjoys the slow, gradual reveal of her form when she descends like an angel from the clouds; she may be a rather earthy princess and the steps from the upper story of the loft are hardly on par with the marbled elegance she deserves, yet she never fails to steal his breath away. And tonight is no exception. Her dress and matching heels are a deep, blood red satin, a color bordering on black that sets her pale beauty off to perfection. The gown and bodice are tight, hugging every curve, save for the pale slice of leg revealed from ankle to nearly her hip by the slit; a long train of the dark material is swept up into a bustle to emphasize her derriere; the neckline curves over the mounds of her breasts and ribbons of the same fabric as the dress cross over them and around her long, graceful neck; furthermore, much of her back is on display thanks to the open corset-lace design. Part of him is aghast at just how much of his Emma is going to be laid bare for everyone to see. Another part of him very much likes this gown, so long as he can slowly peel it off of her this instant.

She finally looks up, seeing the conflict and the longing and the appreciation in her lover’s eyes. Apparently, she’s to play the femme fatale tonight, and recognizing the speechless, dumbfounded expression on Killian’s face makes her want to embrace her role to the hilt. Just for him. She starts thinking bedroom thoughts to soften her eyes and pouts her lower lip out a touch. When she walks, she leads with her hips and points her toes with every step. She throws her voice low into her chest and adds a breathiness to every word when she speaks. “Now, don’t you look quite dashing this evening, Mr. Jones! You’re all dressed up, it seems… Where could you be going without your usual blonde attachment?”

Emma pulls his head close, tugging him forward by his tie and then letting the material slide through her fingers as she starts to circle him. “I think arming you would be a bit redundant with you going in that dress, love.”

He can hear the pout in her voice, clearly taken with her role. “Oh, but you promised to show me all the places I could hide a weapon in an outfit like this!”

“So I did.” Quick as a snake, he grips her wrists and has her pinned against the island in the kitchen. He places both her hands on the counter, trapping her hypnotic green eyes with his own baby blues. “I do believe that the best location for a stiletto or a thin dagger would be down your bodice. Unless someone is frisking you this evening—and their hands shall be in peril if they even consider it, darling—the corset will hide the line of the dagger from anyone who is somehow not captivated by the exquisite display of your breasts.”

The satin of the bodice is stiff, attached as it is to the corset; so he has no qualms about running his hands possessively over her stomach and chest. His Swan pretends to be unaffected, but he knows her body too well for her games. The pink flush on her cheeks and neck give her away, as does the tight puckering of her nipples beneath the glossy fabric. Killian smoothes his right hand down her side, until he can feel the creamy skin of her thigh, inching the slit higher still. “And this lovely feature of your gown means you can’t wear a thigh holster for a gun or blade on this leg. However, the other…”

He flicks the skirt of the dress back, so that it clings onto the top of the bustle, leaving Emma bare from the waist down, except for her black silk panties and a black garter on her right thigh. He hooks one of the stools with his foot, dragging it close. He nudges her knee with his while his hands go to his belt and fly. She follows his silent command and plants her left foot on one of the lower rails of the chair, tossing her head back and moaning seductively. Killian grips the back of her neck, careful of her hair and dress. “Don’t push me too far, darling, or we just might be skipping this party. And after all the trouble you’ve gone through to look even more stunning than usual, that would be a positive shame.”

They meet each other in the middle, kissing like the world is ending and like they’ve never felt more alive. Emma breaks away on a gasp when he thrusts up inside her, extended foreplay be damned. She loves when they can fuck like this—a rare treat because she almost never wears heels. “Gods! Emma love, you drive a man insane! Tonight when we get home, I want you in nothing but these shoes. Want to watch us in the mirror with your long, perfect legs wrapped around me. Red is definitely your color, love.”  
Having no similar concern for his clothes and hair, she grabs his head and pulls him close, biting down hard on his lower lip and running her tongue along it. “Talk later, hot shot.”

He pumps his hips harder, higher, making her moan as he also bites and kisses along her neck and collarbone. The friction in this position is pure torture on him because she’s tighter and shallower. He reaches between them to play with her clit, alternately pinching it and rubbing in smooth circles. Emma’s breathing hitches with every harsh thrust of his cock. He’s ready to explode and so is she; her leg is trembling with holding herself up and holding back her orgasm, holding back for him. She clenches her pussy tight around him, willing him to come for her; but he doesn’t give in, prolonging her pleasurable torture until she’s panting his name. The sound of her real voice gone needy and breathy undoes him, and he can no longer hold himself back. White hot pleasure sizzles up his spine as he pumps himself inside her—a sensation that’s extended by the feel of her walls spasming in her own orgasm. Even without a hair out of place or her make-up smudged, Emma looks thoroughly, wantonly fucked. And Killian can’t help but smile with pride at the fact that he put that expression there.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Having declined Rumplestiltskin’s offer of a carriage, Killian and Emma walk the short distance to the Gold mansion arm in arm, heavy winter coats warding off only some of the chill. Their previous exertions are standing them in better stead in regard to keeping warm than any layers of clothing could achieve, but autumn in Maine can hardly be considered mild by any stretch of the imagination. Thankfully, it isn’t too far for them; by the time they stroll up to the white fence, four other people are waiting at the gate. They had known that her parents would be there, having discussed the invitations with Snow and Charming the week before; Regina and Dr. Whale make up the rest of the group. “Well, Ruby said she couldn’t tell me—just that it was going to be a dinner theater mystery kind of deal. But that’s all she would say.”

“So, Ruby’s in on it too?” David’s voice floats back to the still approaching couple.

“Yeah, apparently Gold spoke to her about it a couple of months ago. He also has Granny and Leroy involved.”

“And Neal, too. He mentioned helping his father out with this party as a “bonding experience” last time we talked. But again, not a word on why or what Rumplestiltskin has planned.” While Regina and Neal hadn’t officially come out as a couple, the two had been spending a lot of time together and with Henry as well; from Emma’s perspective, Regina being around someone who understands her struggle with magic is good for her, even if their relationship truly is as platonic as they present it to everyone else.

Killian notices that each of the ladies are wearing a different colored pair of shoes, but the long winter coats prevent him from seeing their dresses. Only Emma’s comes close to brushing the ground and looks black in the poor lighting, which also prevents the others from seeing the sultry glow still radiating off of her face and body. The clock strikes eight, and immediately, Gold exits his front door wearing a crisp black butler’s uniform. His shoes make a sharp, staccato rhythm against the brick path to the gate. “Welcome, dearies! Beyond these doors, you will enter a different world altogether to solve a very puzzling mystery. Welcome, to the Masque of the White Dahlia!”

With a flash of gold smoke, the gate and doors open, warm candlelight spilling out into the night. Whale gallantly offers his arm to Regina, whose heels are higher than even Emma’s; Snow naturally clings to Charming’s arm, leaving Emma and Killian in their wake. “Why do I suddenly feel like bloody prey walking into a trap?”

“‘Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly.’ It’s a rather gruesome nursery rhyme parents tell their children in this world; basically about the spider luring a fly into her web…Which means that your instincts are probably working just fine, babe.” Right before crossing the threshold, Emma stops him. She reaches up a bit to straighten his tie, then playfully flicks the brim of his hat. “Ready to see what Storybrooke’s resident spider has in store for us, Mr. Jones?”

He drops his hand to her waist, pulling her hips in close to his. His eyes dart down to her lips before his mouth follows, gently brushing against hers. “Ready for anything now, love.” They walk in together, arm in arm, before the lights fade into blackness.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]  
 _Washington, D.C.- 1957_

_Neal Cassidy takes a sip of the finest champagne the house has to offer—free of charge of course. He’s wearing the finest tailored suit that money can buy, sitting on a chaise lounge of carved ivory and silk damask, watching a stunning pair of brunette beauties being fucked by a black-haired man. All the decadence and luxury a man could ever want, right at his fingertips for the taking. But that’s not even the best part, as far as he’s concerned. In this town where everything comes with a price, he’s learned the key to having it all and not having to hand over a dime for it. Secrets. Thanks to his high-ranking job with the FBI, he has access to all of Director Hoover’s wiretaps with none of the limited moral qualms of his superior._

_Take his current setting, for example. On the outside, the White Dahlia Club looks like one of the many mansions of historical interest that dot the open countryside around the capitol city. On the Virginia side of the Potomac River, it has all of the antebellum grace and refinement one can expect from a portion of the fallen, glorious South that wasn’t subject to Yankee scorched-earth policy during the Civil War. Decorated in the late eighteenth-century French style, it represents all the decayed refinement of the long-dead ancein regime of aristocratic splendor. But for all its display of wealth, the White Dahlia Club is nothing more elegant than a whorehouse where monied politicos come to play out their deepest and darkest of fantasies._

_The trio on the bed continues to writhe sinuously—not for their own pleasure, but for his. The two whores are virtually interchangeable, so much so that though he always hires them out for his evenings at the club, he does not even know their stage names. The real focus of tonight’s entertainment is his personal secretary, Aidan Burns. He’d been Neal’s first experiment on the power that secrets can hold over people. After a little digging into the man’s background, Cassidy had discovered that Aidan was raised in a house like this one—a brothel catering to the type of clientele that preferred no questions be asked. Not only had Burns turned tricks as a teenager, but that he was still trying to save someone from the life. In a Washington frightened that Communists and sympathizers lurked around every corner, homos and switches became persona non grata in the higher levels of government. As payment for Neal’s silence, Aidan was required to entertain his employer whenever he saw fit._

_The act itself had become irrelevant to Cassidy. No, it was the power of controlling someone else, of making them do depraved or even lovingly tender things entirely against their will, that was the only thing that could even get his dick hard anymore. One of the brunettes is spread out on the bed, tied wrists and ankles to each corner; the other whore is using a dildo on her bound sister’s ass while eating her pussy, moaning as if somehow she can convince Cassidy that she’s really enjoying it; Burns is kneeling above the girl, hands speared through her hair as he fucks her mouth. Part of the fun for Neal is that Aidan isn’t a physical weakling, nor is he a small man; but because of secrets, he’s got the younger man by the balls. And Burns isn’t his only victim anymore—just the one he likes to toy with most._

_“You’re a whore, girl! You shouldn’t have a gag reflex, and my friend here doesn’t look at all like he’s enjoying himself. Suck his cock like you’re fucking earning it! Or maybe I’ll have to come over there and show you how it’s done.” He knows the threat will work, because all three of them have learned he doesn’t make them idly. If there’s one thing truly uniting them at the moment, other than fear, it’s the knowledge that Neal Cassidy is like a snake—best kept at a distance._   
_…._   
_……._   
_The madam of the White Dahlia Club, known to all her employees and patrons as Blanche Lee, watches through a two-way mirror, just as much a participant and a victim as the trio on the bed. Her job is to protect her girls, one made much more difficult by the bottom-feeder extraordinaire, Neal Cassidy. The callousness of the command and the distain in his voice are clear, even on the recording piped back to her security room. But she still doesn’t have enough leverage against him, even after all these years of trying! He continues to blackmail money out of her profits—a 15% “protection” fee—and break her best girls. More than one pro has reached the end of her freshness, and a few the end of their ropes, after one too many rounds with Neal fucking Cassidy! She’s tired of giving away all of their hard earned money, tired of early morning trips to various local hospitals, tired of cleaning up the blood._

_She really wants to retire, but at twenty-four, she should still be young and fresh for this gig a few more years. If she could just find a way to end his reign of terror, then maybe she can survive a little bit longer…_   
_…._   
_……._   
_Neal is lying in the bed alone, waiting for Madam Lee to send in his latest request—someone entirely new to the business. His other kink, aside from power, is pain and fear. A fresh girl with no experience… more intoxicating than the champagne he drank earlier! The door finally opens, slowly and timidly as one might expect from new meat. But he isn’t prepared for who walks in instead. “What the fuck are you doing here? Where’s my girl?”_

_Two gunshots ring out and the room quickly fills with discharged smoke and powder. Blood pours from the wounds made by the .22 caliber bullets lodged in Cassidy’s head and heart. His eyes glaze over as his final breaths shudder out of his lungs, and the King of D.C.’s underbelly is finally dead._


End file.
